It's street kids in a drain-circling Russian economy, huffing glue and smoking various things. There's hints at sexual acts and knowledge that are way too coy and prim for me. It's like a documentary made by missionaries, from some skewed angle that brings as much sickness as it proposes to heal.
There's no love reaction to the wound.
The first time glue-huffing as an economic by-product caught my attention was in a short story by James N. Robison. Mexican teenagers at an abandoned drive-in movie in some Gulf town like Brownsville. I read it 20 years ago maybe and the image is still on fire, because it was burning with love. Now huffing is the drug of choice for third world kids globally.
These images are a kind of anti-porn. Something perverse in them somewhere outside the frame.
But for people who need reminding, like we all do at times, that the "fall of communism" for which the recently expired Ronald Reagan is so celebrated, has produced a surplus population of blonde-haired blue-eyed children with absolutely no prospects, who live amidst adult desperation and predatory amorality, for whom capitalism and its heroes take absolutely no responsibility even while they claim to have done that which causes them to be so entirely abandoned, here are some relatively cute kids who would probably fellate you for the Russian equivalent of 5 dollars.
And they're there because you and your heroes destroyed the economy they were born into, and then just walked away from the wreckage.
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James N. Robison is woefully undersung in contemporary letters. It's obligatory to mention that he is the reason by virtue of matrimony that Mary Robison is thus known, Mary Robison being herself an author of marked and fiercely championed compassion.

"...built in conformity with the regulations of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees - consists of structures such as living units, a multifunctional tent and latrines; all easily transportable and with a relatively low production cost."

"I was born on the 31st of March, 1860, in a gipsy tent, the son of gipsies, Cornelius Smith and his wife Mary Welch. The place was the parish of Wanstead, near Epping Forest, a mile and a half from the Green Man, Leytonstone..."

...for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts
Were always downward bent, admiring more
The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold,
Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed
In vision beatific....Let none admire
That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best
Deserve the precious bane.

-Milton

Ours is the era of commerce, as its propagandists never weary of telling us. Business is the basis of our material lives, and consequently of our culture. Business men control our politics and dictate our laws; business men own our newspapers and direct their policy; business men sit on our school boards, and endow and manage our universities.